Mr Monk Goes To the Dog House
by Ta1u1a
Summary: Monk turns pet detective when a dog sniper plagues San Francisco. COMPLETE
1. Getting the Case

The park was bustling with people on the beautiful summer afternoon. Some college students were playing frisbee in an open area just south of the baseball field, where an intramural softball game was going on. Children played on the swings and slides not far from the frisbee game, and joggers frequently passed by on the path that circled the park.  
  
Twelve-year-old Todd Masters had his own frisbee and tossed it in the air. His five-year-old beagle, Duke, chased after the frisbee, jumped in the air and caught it expertly in his mouth. Then the dog faithfully returned the frisbee to his master, playing tug of war momentarily before releasing it from his teeth. Todd repeated the game, trying to make throws more difficult each time. But each time, Duke was able to catch the frisbee and return it.  
  
"Okay, Duke," Todd yelled. He patted his leg and called for his dog. "Come here boy." Duke obediently trotted over to Todd and then followed him over to a sidewalk vendor. Todd pulled some money out of his pocket for a bottled water, with Duke sitting on the sidewalk nearby patiently.  
  
The sound of a loud crack startled everyone in the park. It was followed shortly by a high pitched yelp and then screams as people ran to find some kind of cover. Todd had been startled momentarily by the gunshot, but after hearing the yelp, he immediately looked down. Duke was lying on his side on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. He had been shot.  
  
* * *  
  
Sharona stood precariously on the second step from the top of the ladder, reaching up to change a light bulb in the dim office. She was trying hard to ignore her boss, Adrian Monk, who was pacing anxiously below her.  
  
"Adrian," she said sharply, her voice lightly accented to give away the fact that she was originally from New Jersey. She set the glass light shade on the top of the ladder. "This would be so much easier if you would stop pacing."  
  
Monk groaned a little and covered his eyes as she unscrewed the burnt out bulb. She lightly tossed it toward the nearby trashcan, where the bulb fell quietly into the can amidst numerous crumpled papers.  
  
"You're making me nervous," Monk said, his anxiety evident in the whining tone of his voice.  
  
"You're making me nervous," Sharona shot back, reaching down to get the light shade after screwing in the new bulb. "Of course, if the maintenance guys in this building would actually do their jobs, we wouldn't be in this situation right now. Why don't you talk to the building manager? You're paying rent for this office."  
  
"I know. I've been meaning to," Monk said. As Sharona climbed down, he put out his hands in case she fell, which in his mind was an inevitable fate. But she made it down to the floor safely and started folding up the ladder. "It's just that the building manager is a very angry man, and you know how I hate confrontation." Sharona rolled her eyes and leaned the ladder against the wall. She flipped the light switch and the office was filled with light. "Hey, maybe you could talk to him. You're good with confrontation."  
  
"Do I have to do everything around here?" she asked in annoyance, shaking her head. "You know I won't be around forever, Adrian."  
  
"Sure you will," he said with a smile. "You wouldn't leave me."  
  
"It's tempting," she said with a smirk.  
  
But Monk was right. Sharona had put up with him for three years, and he had grown on her. He was a giant, neurotic mess. Most normal people would end up just as crazy as Monk after spending an hour with him, but somehow he and Sharona had become more than just employer and employee. They were friends, like in The Odd Couple. Plus, for all his neurosis, Monk made up for it in brilliance. She had watched him solve so many cases that had everyone else stumped. What looked like accidents to the police looked like homicides to Adrian Monk. Impossible suspects became possible. He was a modern-day Sherlock Holmes.  
  
There was a brief knock at the door before it opened, and in walked Sharona's son, Benjamin, along with his friend, Todd Masters. Sharona and Monk were both surprised.  
  
"Benjy, what are you doing here?" Sharona asked. "I thought you guys were going to the park."  
  
"I told Todd that you and Mr. Monk could help him," Ben replied. Sharona shut the office door and the four of them walked further into the office. Ben and Todd sat on the sofa.  
  
"Help with what?" Monk asked, wondering what a twelve-year-old boy would want his help with.  
  
"Somebody shot my dog," Todd said simply. Monk didn't react. Sharona gasped and sat next to Todd.  
  
"Oh no, I'm so sorry," she said sympathetically. "God, I know how much you loved Duke. What happened?"  
  
"We were playing frisbee in the park. I stopped to get some water from a vendor," Todd explained. "Duke was sitting right next to me. Then there was this loud noise and I looked down and he was dead."  
  
"In the middle of a crowded park?" Sharona asked, surprised that someone would be so bold just to kill a dog. Todd nodded his head.  
  
"I still don't understand where I come in," Monk said. Todd looked up to him.  
  
"I talked to the cops but they're not going to do anything," he said.  
  
"Did they say they weren't?" Sharona asked, having a pretty good idea why the police wouldn't do anything. Dogs didn't rank high on police priorities.  
  
"No, but I could tell they weren't taking it seriously," Todd said. "Ben said you're good at solving murders."  
  
"Well, yes, human murders," Monk said. Sharona shot him a look of disapproval, but he didn't notice. "I don't know what I'd be able to do for you here."  
  
"Please, Mr. Monk," Ben said, coming to his friend's aide.  
  
"Adrian, can I talk to you over there for a second?" Sharona asked, gesturing to the other side of the office. They walked away from Ben and Todd, and Sharona spoke in a hushed tone. "We've gotta help him."  
  
Monk looked at Sharona like she had gone mad. The idea of investigating a dog murder sounded absurd to him. "It's just a dog."  
  
"It's not just a dog to Todd," Sharona argued. "You never saw him with Duke. They were inseparable. That dog was the smartest dog I've ever seen, and Todd taught him everything he knew. They were best friends."  
  
"A dog," Monk said. He thought about all the dogs he had come in close range with and he thought of dirt and fleas and smell and more dirt. "A dirty, smelly dog."  
  
"A caring, loyal dog," Sharona shot back.  
  
Monk sighed and shook his head. "Next I'll be investigating who fed Polly too many crackers." He walked back across the office. "Okay Todd, we'll help you."  
  
"Thank you so much, Mr. Monk," Todd said with a grateful smile. "I just don't get why anybody would want to hurt Duke. He never hurt anybody."  
  
"I'm sure he didn't," Monk said. Now he had to just get himself in the proper mindset to investigate the murder . . . of man's best friend. 


	2. Meeting Poochie

Their first stop as always was the police station to talk to Captain Stottlemeyer and get whatever information the police had on the case. Considering this was a dog murder, Monk didn't expect the police's information to be any more detailed than what Todd had told them. The captain's secretary was on the phone, but when she saw Monk and Sharona, she quickly hung up.  
  
"What a coincidence," she said. "The captain had asked me to call you. Please have a seat." She gestured to some chairs and headed for Stottlemeyer's office.  
  
Sharona sat while Monk stood nearby, straightening a painting on the wall. They could hear someone speaking heatedly inside Stottlemeyer's office and it wasn't Stottlemeyer.  
  
Inside the office a man in a very expensive-looking suit was standing in front of the captain's desk. He was the one who was speaking very loudly and angrily. Sitting on the chair in front of him was a Jack Russell terrier. The dog was wearing a diamond studded collar.  
  
"Captain, Poochie is a very important dog. She is a dog with influence. Are you telling me that you're not going to do anything to ensure her safety from this dog sniper that's on the loose?" the man asked.  
  
"Mr. Corson, like I said before, we are putting all available efforts into finding this dog sniper," Stottlemeyer replied from behind his desk.. "However, we are not going to take police officers off other cases to body guard Poochie just because she's rich. If you fear for her safety I suggest you keep her indoors for a while."  
  
"Poochie needs her exercise," Corson replied sharply.  
  
"Then put her on a treadmill," Stottlemeyer shot back snidely. He noticed his secretary in the doorway and waited for her to speak.  
  
"Mr. Monk and Ms. Fleming are here," she announced. The captain nodded his head to let her know to send them in. Moments later, Monk and Sharona entered the office.  
  
"Mr. Corson, I'd like you to meet Adrian Monk and his assistant, Sharona Fleming," Stottlemeyer introduced them. "This is Albert Corson, and that," he said, gesturing to the dog, "is Poochie."  
  
"Poochie?" Monk asked, staring warily at the dog. Poochie had stood in the chair and turned to face them upon their entrance. She barked once, as if she were saying hello.  
  
"City's richest dog," Sharona said, explaining to Monk. "She inherited over a million dollars three months ago from the rich old lady who owned her."  
  
"Yes, that rich old lady was my mother," Corson replied, his demeanor not changing at all to be pleasant to the two of them.  
  
"Pleasure to meet both of you," Monk said, still staring at Poochie as if any second she would pounce on him and start treating him like a chew toy, or worse . . . drooling on him.  
  
"Monk, I want you to help on a case that Mr. Corson is very concerned about," Stottlemeyer said. Sharona moved over to Poochie and started petting her until she caught the glare she was receiving from Corson. She shot a look back at him and left Poochie alone. "It involves four shootings in which all the victims were dogs. The caliber of the bullets suggests that they were all shot with a fairly sophisticated sniper rifle."  
  
"There were other dog shootings?" Monk asked, now intrigued that someone would go to such trouble to kill a bunch of mangy, filthy . . . loveable, adorable dogs. He tried to forget about all the filth associated with dogs, and he also tried to stop staring at Poochie.  
  
"What do you mean other?" Lt. Disher asked, finally speaking up from his position to the captain's right. "How do you know about this?"  
  
"My son's friend, Todd, was in the park when his dog was shot," Sharona explained. "He came to us for help."  
  
"Todd Masters?" Stottlemeyer asked. Sharona nodded her head. "Yeah, he was the latest one. Honestly we don't have a lot to go on." He noticed the annoyed look that spread across Corson's face. "But cases with very little evidence are Monk's specialty, Mr. Corson. He's the best private detective in the city."  
  
"I'll do my best," Monk said. After Sharona had stopped petting her, Poochie had turned to stare at Monk. The two of them were currently in a staring match. Poochie licked her chops and Monk cringed. Then he forced himself to look at Stottlemeyer. "Do you have the murder weapon?"  
  
"No," he replied. "But we do know that all the bullets came from the same rifle."  
  
"So, it's the same person who shot all four dogs," Sharona said. "Were they all shot in the same place, too?"  
  
"No, all four dogs were shot in different locations throughout the city. One was shot in the owner's back yard," Disher answered.  
  
"And Todd's was in the park," Monk said. "Where were the other two?"  
  
"One was a stray shot by Ghirardelli Square," Disher answered. "The other one was shot near the 4th District Fire Station."  
  
"A Dalmation?" Monk asked with a smirk.  
  
"Poodle," Disher replied.  
  
"That the case file?" Sharona asked, pointing to a file on Stottlemeyer's desk. He nodded his head and she grabbed it.  
  
"Just have Lisa make copies of it for you," Stottlemeyer said. He turned his attention back to Corson, who had been oddly silent ever since he had been informed Monk was on the case. "Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr. Corson?"  
  
Corson looked up, almost appearing startled by the captain's voice. Monk noticed that. "Um, no, Captain," he said. "Well, we should go." He turned, patted his thigh and called Poochie. Then the two of them moved quickly out of the office.  
  
"That was weird," Sharona said, watching Corson and Poochie leave. "Guy's a little high strung."  
  
"You have no idea," Stottlemeyer said.  
  
"He's been calling the office ever since the first shooting," Disher added. "Today he finally decided to pay a personal visit."  
  
"Ever since the first shooting?" Monk asked. Disher nodded his head. Monk glanced toward the door, mulling over his own thoughts.  
  
"So we should probably get going, Adrian," Sharona said, not noticing Monk's thoughtful gaze. "Check out the crime scenes."  
  
"Sure," Monk said. He absently turned to Stottlemeyer. "Thanks for the help."  
  
"No problem," the captain said.  
  
While they waited for Lisa to copy the case file, Monk messed with the items on Lisa's desk, trying to make it all at right angles. Sharona watched him and shook her head.  
  
"Adrian, knock it off," she said.  
  
"Just need everything to be square," he said as he moved a stapler. As he reached for the tape dispenser, Sharona grabbed his hand. Everybody in the vicinity looked over when Monk quickly jerked his hand away and cried out loudly. Disher and Stottlemeyer rushed to the doorway of the captain's office to see what the commotion was about. Sharona was just as startled as everyone else.  
  
"What is the matter with you?" she asked. He had never recoiled from her like that before.  
  
"You touched the dog," Monk said quietly. Sharona stared at him like he had grown a second head. "You touched Poochie."  
  
Disher and Stottlemeyer went back into the office, and everyone else went back to what they were doing. Sharona stared at Monk a little longer and then dug in her purse for one of Monk's wipes.  
  
"I don't know why I put up with you," she muttered as she wiped off her hands. Monk smiled sheepishly and they continued to wait for Lisa to return with their copy of the case file. 


	3. Identifying the Suspect

Instead of going to the first crime scene, Sharona found herself driving Adrian to the home of San Francisco's richest dog. She didn't know why they were going there, but they were. Adrian had insisted it. He had almost actually stolen her keys from her to drive himself. He wouldn't explain himself. She signalled to make a left turn into the driveway and waited for the traffic to clear. She glanced over and noticed Adrian using one of his wipes on the side of the door.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asked.  
  
"It's sticky," he said.  
  
"Yeah, well I have a twelve-year-old son," she said as she turned into the driveway. "What do you expect?"  
  
"Don't you ever clean the car?" he asked. Sharona shot her usual look of disbelief and annoyance at him.  
  
"Sorry. I don't think you heard," she said. "I've got a twelve-year-old son. Not to mention a completely dependent boss."  
  
Monk ignored her attempt at an insult as they pulled up in front of Poochie's mansion. The two of them both had to lean forward to look up to see how high the home went. It was four floors above ground.  
  
"Gives a whole new meaning to being in the dog house," Sharona commented. The two of them exited the car. Sharona met Monk by the front fender. "Tell me again why we're here. I mean, I'm no detective, but shouldn't we be checking out the crime scenes?"  
  
"We're here to talk to Mr. Corson," Monk said. "The moment I met him, I knew he had something to do with this."  
  
"Why would he be shooting dogs?" Sharona asked. "He owns a dog."  
  
"He doesn't own the dog. The dog owns him," Monk said. Sharona knocked on the front door. "I don't know how he's involved yet. But he is involved."  
  
"What? You think just because he lost out on a million bucks to a dog, he would go around shooting other people's dogs?" Sharona asked.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
The door opened and Corson looked like he was trying to hide his annoyance at their presence. He wasn't doing a good job of it.  
  
"Mr. Monk, what are you doing here?" he asked.  
  
"I wanted to ask you a few questions . . . about dogs," Monk said. "Since you take care of Poochie, we thought you might be able to help."  
  
"Well, I'm no dog expert," Corson replied. Monk and Sharona just stood there, waiting to be let in. He sighed. "Please, come in."  
  
They both entered the foyer and took in the inside of the home. Sharona looked up and saw an immense crystal chandelier. There was a wide staircase leading up to the second floor. The foyer was tiled with solid white marble.  
  
"Nice house," Sharona commented, looking around.  
  
"It's been in our family for three generations," Corson said. "So what can I help you with?"  
  
"I was just wondering why you began calling the police after only one shooting had occurred," Monk asked.  
  
"I thought you had questions about dogs," Corson said nervously.  
  
Monk ignored the statement. "I mean, one shooting of a stray dog across town shouldn't have alarmed you so much."  
  
"Any danger to Poochie is very serious. My mother left explicit instructions that Poochie was to be well cared for," Corson said. "She wanted Poochie to live the longest and happiest life possible."  
  
"Obviously," Sharona said with a scoff, moving off to look at some pictures on the wall in the hallway. She muttered under her breath, "I just love being two economic classes below a dog."  
  
"Where were you today at about one o'clock?" Monk asked.  
  
"I was at lunch with a friend," Corson replied. He was already defensive. "Why?"  
  
"What restaurant were you at?" Monk asked. Sharona had taken a pad of paper and a pen out of her purse. She was ready to take notes on the conversation while still surveying the pictures on the wall.  
  
"It's called The Patio," Corson replied. "Again, why?"  
  
Sharona pointed to a picture on the wall with her pen. It was of Corson in a snowy setting wearing ski gear with a rifle strapped to his back. "What's this picture from?"  
  
Corson moved over and looked at it. "I went to college in Denver. I competed in the biathlon every year. It was cross-country skiing and sharpshooting."  
  
"You're a sharpshooter?" Monk asked, his curiosity even more aroused.  
  
"Yes, I am," Corson said angrily. "I'm also a member of the National Rifle Association. But I know what you're getting at, and I resent the implication. I did not shoot those dogs, and I don't have any reason to have shot them anyway."  
  
"Perhaps as a cover for when Poochie gets shot," Monk said. "A million dollars is a nice motive."  
  
"The average lifespan of a dog is fifteen years Mr. Monk. Poochie's seven," Corson said with a laugh. "I think I can wait for Poochie to die of natural causes."  
  
"What do you do for a living, Mr. Corson? Do you work?" Monk asked, changing the subject slightly.  
  
"I work with computers and electronics," he replied. He was no longer trying to conceal his anger at all. "I'm really tired of your questions, Mr. Monk. I'm not sure why you think I'm involved in all of this, but I'm not."  
  
"Come on, Adrian," Sharona said, moving back over by Monk's side. "Let's go."  
  
"Just one more question, Mr. Corson," Monk said. "Where were you when the other three shootings happened?"  
  
Corson sighed. "The first one I was in a meeting here with my mother's attorney. The second one I was playing golf with my boss and a client. The third I was in another meeting with my mother's attorney at his office." He glared at Monk. "Would you like names and phone numbers?"  
  
"Yes, that would be very helpful," Monk said. Sharona handed Corson her pad of paper, and he quickly wrote down three names and phone numbers.  
  
"The top one is my mother's attorney, the second is my boss and the third is the friend I had lunch with today," he said. He moved to the front door and opened it. "Now, I think that's quite enough for today and I would like you to please leave."  
  
Monk and Sharona made their way to the door. As soon as they passed through it, Corson slammed it behind them.  
  
"Well, that was pleasant," Sharona said. "But I still don't understand why you think it's him."  
  
"You don't?" Monk asked. Sharona shrugged her shoulders.  
  
"What if his alibis check out?" she asked. The two of them got in the car and she started it up. She waited for instructions on where to go next.  
  
"I'm sure they will," Monk said. "He wouldn't have given them to us if they didn't."  
  
"If the guy's got alibis for everything, how could he possibly have done it?"  
  
"I don't know," he replied. "Let's go back to the office. We need to make some phone calls."  
  
Sharona put the car and drive. "I don't know, Adrian. Usually I'm on board with you. But this time I'm having a hard time jumping on your train of thought."  
  
"Don't worry," Monk said staring at the house as they drove off. "You'll get on it eventually."  
  
* * *  
  
Monk poked at the numbers on the telephone with his right index finger wrapped in a tissue. He had the phone on speakerphone and while he dialed the number to Corson's mother's attorney, Sharona was looking up dog information on the Internet.  
  
"Did you know the normal body temperature for a dog is 102 degrees Fahrenheit?" she asked Monk. He didn't respond. "No wonder they're panting all the time. If I was that hot, I'd be panting too."  
  
"Shh, it's ringing," Monk said. Sharona turned away from the computer and waited with him for someone to pick up.  
  
"Donald Rawlings and Associates," the female voice greeted them. "How may I direct your call?"  
  
"My name is Adrian Monk," he responded. "I'm a private investigator. I was hoping to speak with Mr. Rawlings regarding a case I'm working on. It involves Mrs. Corson and her dog, Poochie."  
  
"Just a moment. I'll see if Mr. Rawlings is available," the woman said. She put them on hold and Musak filled the office. Sharona turned back to the computer to read more about dogs.  
  
"Ugh, I wouldn't want to be a dog," she said. "They can't eat chocolate. Even the slightest bit would kill them." Monk looked at her, confused as to why not eating chocolate would be a bad thing. "Me not eating chocolate is like you not using wet wipes."  
  
"Don't even joke about that," he said. The hold music stopped and they were greeted by a fairly pleasant male voice. He seemed more upbeat than they would've thought a lawyer would be.  
  
"This is Donald Rawlings. What can I do for you today, Mr. Monk?"  
  
"Mr. Rawlings-" Monk began, but Rawlings interrupted him.  
  
"Please call me Donald."  
  
"Okay, Donald," Monk continued. "I was checking to see if you can confirm that you were in meetings with Albert Corson last week Monday and this past Monday."  
  
"Yes, I was," he replied. "Hang on. Let me get to my calendar and I can tell you the times." They waited and listened to Rawlings type on his computer to pull up his calendar. "Okay, last week we met at the mansion between two and four in the afternoon. This week he came to my office and we met from nine to ten in the morning. Why do you ask?"  
  
"I think he may be involved in some shootings that have happened within the past week," Monk said.  
  
"Shootings? What kind of shootings?"  
  
"Four dogs have been shot within the past week with a high-powered rifle," Sharona said. She skimmed the police reports until she found what she was looking for. "Last week's shooting happened at 3:22 pm and this week's happened at 9:17 am."  
  
"Well Albert was with me during those times, like I said," Rawlings stated. "But I can see why you would think he would be involved."  
  
"I know, it seems crazy for Mr. Corson to come up with this elaborate plan in order to kill Poochie without suspicion," Monk said. "Especially when Poochie will die of old age in about 8 or 9 years."  
  
"Oh, it's not crazy," Rawlings said. "Albert's being cut out of his mother's will."  
  
"What? How?" Sharona asked. This certainly boosted up Monk's theory. "She's dead. How can her will change?"  
  
"There are circumstances when a will can change posthumously," Rawlings said. "It was Loretta's dying wish that Albert be cut from this family. She had planned on doing it months ago, but her condition deteriorated so rapidly in the last month that it hadn't gone through yet."  
  
"But doesn't she have to sign something to make it official?" Monk asked.  
  
"Not necessarily," Rawlings said. "But that's why it has taken so long to get it pushed through. There's a lot of specifics involved with a posthumous change in the will. She signed a dying declaration, but there's more to it than that."  
  
"So, basically if Poochie died before the will changed, the money would go to Albert, right?" Sharona asked.  
  
"That's right," Rawlings said. "But if Poochie doesn't die within the next two weeks, Albert loses out on the family money."  
  
"Why would Mrs. Corson cut her own son out of her will?" Monk asked.  
  
"Albert never got along with either of his parents. He's greedy and selfish and all he has ever cared about was the family money and status," Rawlings said. "Don't get me wrong. He's brilliant. Extremely intelligent and athletic. But he only looks out for himself, no one else."  
  
"What happens to the money if the will change does go through?" Sharona asked.  
  
"It'll mostly go to charity," Rawlings said. "Animal related charities of course. Loretta loved all animals."  
  
"You've been a great help, Donald," Monk said. "Thank you so much for your time."  
  
"No problem," Rawlings said. "I almost wish I couldn't give Albert an alibi."  
  
"Oh, I have ways around that," Monk said, exchanging a smile with Sharona. "Thank you again."  
  
"Good luck with your case, Mr. Monk."  
  
They said their goodbyes and Sharona nodded her head. "Okay, I'm on your train here, Adrian, but I still don't see how."  
  
"Neither do I, but hopefully when we visit the crime scenes tomorrow, we'll figure that out." 


	4. In the Line of Fire

The next day, Monk and Sharona walked down the sidewalk in the park while people moved all around them. Sharona was holding their copy of the case file under left arm. She pointed to her right through some trees to a building across the street. It was over 100 yards from where Duke had been shot.  
  
"That's the window where they say the shot came from," she said, pointing to a window on the third floor.  
  
"Good shot," Monk commented. He turned and looked toward the vendor that Todd had been buying his bottled water from at the time of the shooting. "Duke was over there. So we should talk to that vendor."  
  
"How about you talk to that vendor and I talk to that one?" Sharona said, pointing to another vendor about 50 yards away from the other one.  
  
"Or how about we talk to that vendor first and then go talk to the other one?" Monk asked, not liking the idea of being separated. They had to go in order.  
  
"Or how about we each talk to a different vendor at the same time because I have to pick Benjy up from Todd's house in a half hour?" she asked sharply. Monk reluctantly moved away from her and walked over to the first vendor. Sharona waited for Monk to turn his back on her before she started walking over to the other vendor.  
  
"Hello," Monk said as he approached the vendor. "I'm Adrian Monk. I'm investigating the shooting that happened here yesterday."  
  
"Oh yeah, poor pooch," the vendor said. "I don't know who would want to shoot a defenseless dog."  
  
Sharona was on her way over to her vendor when she heard barking. She looked to her left and saw Poochie running over to her. Poochie stopped in front of Sharona and barked at her.  
  
"Poochie, what are you doing here?" she asked, immediately kneeling down with her back to the street. She set the copy of the file on the ground.  
  
Monk continued to question the vendor. "So you didn't see any-"  
  
He was cut off when a loud crack sounded. The vendor dove immediately to the ground in fear, covering his head. Monk ducked a little, instinctively. Then he looked around, wondering where the gunshot had come from. That's when he saw someone lying on the ground, motionless. He recognized Sharona's jacket right away and immediately felt ill as he rushed over to her. He knelt next to her, cringing at the sight of the blood on the left side of her chest. She was gasping for breath and her face was twisted in pain. To Sharona this pain was only rivaled by the pain of giving birth to her son. Nothing else she had ever felt in her life compared.  
  
"Adrian," she said in a strained whisper as she made eye contact with him. He took her right hand and she gripped his hand tightly. He didn't even think about the germs he'd get from holding her hand like that. They kept eye contact for a moment, but soon the pain was too much for Sharona and her eyes slowly closed, her hand going limp in Monk's.  
  
"Oh my god," Monk said. He lightly shook her hand. "Sharona? Sharona?" He was starting to panic. His first instinct was to ask Sharona what to do. But he couldn't. He looked around frantically. "Somebody call an ambulance! Please!"  
  
When no more gunshots had sounded, people had started to gather. Monk saw a teenage girl with a cell phone approaching. She quickly made eye contact with him. "The paramedics are on the way."  
  
Monk nodded his head and looked back to Sharona. "Do you hear that? They're on their way. Help is on the way."  
  
* * *  
  
He sat in the hospital waiting room, his head in his hands. He still hadn't calmed down. If only he had insisted on her coming with him to question the vendor. Or maybe if he had gone with her. He just kept thinking of ways he could have prevented this. He kept staring at the linoleum until he heard his name being spoken.  
  
"Monk," Stottlemeyer said as he and Lt. Disher approached. "We just heard. How is she?"  
  
"I don't know," Monk replied. He stood and glared over toward the nurse's station. "They won't tell me anything, except that she's in surgery. I don't know. There was so much blood."  
  
"I'm sure she'll be fine," Disher said, trying to keep Monk from panicking.  
  
"She's too stubborn to let you outlive her," Stottlemeyer added. Monk managed a small smile at that. "So what exactly happened?"  
  
"I didn't see anything. I was talking to a vendor in the park. Sharona was going to talk to a different vendor," Monk explained. "Then I heard the gunshot and she was on the ground."  
  
"Has anyone told her son?" Stottlemeyer asked.  
  
"Oh my god, Benjy!" Monk exclaimed running his hands through his hair. Then he looked at his watch. "Sharona was supposed to pick him up from Todd's house an hour ago."  
  
Just then a surgeon approached them. He looked like he had just come from the operating room.  
  
"You're Mr. Monk, right?" he asked. Monk nodded his head. "I'm Dr. Robbins. I operated on Sharona."  
  
"Is she going to be okay?" Monk asked anxiously. He knew the answer had to be yes. It had to be.  
  
"It's a little early to tell," Dr. Robbins explained. "The bullet entered through her back and went straight through to exit through her chest. But it grazed her left lung and allowed some fluid into her lung. We drained the fluid and repaired the damage from the bullet, but there's still a risk of infection." He noticed the extreme worry on Monk's face. "Don't worry, Mr. Monk. We'll be taking very good care of her."  
  
Monk nodded his head, still nervous and unsure of what the doctor had said. He tried not to let that show. "Can I see her?"  
  
"We'll be moving her out of recovery in a half hour. I'll have a nurse come get you then."  
  
Stottlemeyer noticed that Monk looked overwhelmed. He was worried about Sharona, and he was probably worried about how to tell Ben. "Monk, Randy and I will go get Ben. Why don't you just wait here?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, I'll do that," he replied. He was starting to breathe rapidly, as if he was hyperventilating. He pointed toward the exit. "I'm going to . . . I need some air. I'm just going to go outside." He walked away without allowing anyone to say anything else.  
  
"Is she family?" Dr. Robbins asked.  
  
"No," Disher replied. Stottlemeyer shook his head.  
  
"But she's close enough," the captain said as he watched Monk walk out of the hospital. He knew that if Monk lost Sharona it would set him right back to where he was after Trudy died. He sighed and grabbed Disher's arm. "Let's go, Randy. Thanks doctor."  
  
Dr. Robbins nodded his head and walked away as Disher and Stottlemeyer went to go find Sharona's son. 


	5. Solving the Case

He sat in a chair by her bedside, watching her just lie there with intravenous tubes and wires running to and from her body. Her left arm was in a sling and she had an oxygen tube running to her nose. He shook his head and muttered to himself, "If only we weren't on this case." He knew who had done this. He wasn't sure how, but he knew. And if he had backed off the case, it wouldn't have happened.  
  
"Just like Trudy," he whispered. "My fault."  
  
"Mr. Monk." He wiped at his eyes to conceal that he was near tears and turned when he heard Ben's voice. He stood as Ben and Stottlemeyer approached the bed.  
  
"Benjy," Monk said.  
  
Ben just stared at his mother for a while, resting his hands on the bed. Then he looked up to Monk and asked quietly, "Is she going to be okay?"  
  
Monk forced a smile to reassure Ben. "Of course she is. You know your mom," he said. "She's tough as nails. It takes more than one little bullet to stop her."  
  
Ben smiled slightly and nodded. They all looked up when Lt. Disher joined them.  
  
"Captain, there's news," he said with an excited smile. Monk and Stottlemeyer moved over to Disher while Ben sat in the chair and held Sharona's right hand. Disher spoke in a slightly hushed tone. "We think we found the gun. It was mounted on a tripod in a building across the street. It's in the lab for testing. But the bullet that got Sharona is the same caliber as the ones from the dogs."  
  
"The dog sniper did this?" Stottlemeyer asked in surprise. "Why Sharona?"  
  
"He felt he was threatened," Monk said his face etched with disappointment. "It was a message to get me to back off."  
  
"He would risk murder over some dog shootings?" Stottlemeyer asked. "That doesn't make sense."  
  
"The guy's going around shooting dogs because of some money," Monk said agitatedly. "Nothing makes sense."  
  
"You still think it's Corson?" Stottlemeyer asked. Monk nodded his head.  
  
"He has an alibi for every shooting. We haven't talked to him yet, but he probably has an alibi for this one, too," Disher said.  
  
"It's him. I know it is," Monk said. "I just don't know how."  
  
"It's not possible, Monk," Stottlemeyer said. "For one of the shootings, he was all the way on the other side of the city."  
  
"I know," Monk said. "But it's him."  
  
"We can't arrest him on your intuition," Stottlemeyer said. "You better pull a rabbit out of your hat like you always do."  
  
"I'll figure it out. Eventually."  
  
Monk looked over to Ben and Sharona. Ben was just sitting there holding his mother's hand. Monk knew he owed it to both of them to get Corson put behind bars.  
  
* * *  
  
Disher, Stottlemeyer and Monk left the hospital once Stottlemeyer's wife, Karen, arrived to stay with Ben. They were at the lab to see the rifle used in the shootings.  
  
"It's a standard sniper rifle," Disher said. The rifle was mounted on a tripod. Disher stood on one side of it with Stottlemeyer and Monk on the other side. "The serial number was scraped off. No way to trace it to the owner."  
  
"Any prints?" Stottlemeyer asked.  
  
Disher shook his head. "But check this out," he said with a smile. He paused for his own dramatic effect. Stottlemeyer shook his head in frustration.  
  
"Check what out?" he asked.  
  
"The scope has heat sensors," he said. Monk and Stottlemeyer both looked closely at the large scope that was mounted on top of the rifle. It had a three inch screen that showed different colors for different temperatures. "It also has a memory chip with certain temperatures programmed into it. One hundred one degrees. One hundred two degrees. We're not sure what that's for."  
  
"One hundred and two degrees," Monk muttered. He knew that meant something to him, but his brain just wasn't wrapping around it at the moment. He shook his head and looked up at Disher. "This scope is very high tech."  
  
"Yeah, our guys in the lab said it's homemade," Disher replied. "The shooter built this scope himself."  
  
"And there's no prints," Monk said.  
  
"None," Disher replied.  
  
"No prints," Monk repeated. He started to walk away. Stottlemeyer began to follow him. "One hundred and two degrees."  
  
"Get that back into evidence, lieutenant," Stottlemeyer said. Then he caught up with Monk and walked beside him. "What next Monk?"  
  
"I need to talk to Sharona," he said.  
  
"Sharona's not conscious," Stottlemeyer said.  
  
Monk nodded his head. "I know, but I need to talk to her."  
  
* * *  
  
When they arrived at Sharona's room she was in the same condition as when they had left her. Karen was sitting in the chair by Sharona's bed reading a book. Ben was asleep on the small bench against the wall.  
  
"Any change?" Stottlemeyer asked his wife. She shook her head.  
  
"Nothing significant," Karen said. "Her blood pressure's up a little. The doctor said that was good. I don't know."  
  
"Can I be alone with Sharona for a little bit?" Monk asked abruptly. The two of them nodded their heads and moved toward the door.  
  
"We'll be right outside if you need anything," Stottlemeyer said. Monk just nodded his head and sat in the chair once they had gone. He glanced over at Ben, making sure he was fast asleep.  
  
"I need your help, Sharona," he began. "I'm missing something. It's something small, but it's important. And I know you would help me remember it. You know what it is." He stared intently at her face, hoping for movement. "You know, but you can't tell me. Corson is right there. I can nail him, but I'm just missing that one tiny piece of the puzzle." He paused and sighed. "I'm missing you. Remember how yesterday you joked that you were tempted to leave me? You can't do it like this. You just can't."  
  
Monk closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to will Sharona to wake up. It was his own form of prayer. He was willing her to wake up and he was willing the final clue to fall into place in his mind. He hoped that at least one of the two would happen soon.  
  
A small moan made his head shoot up like a jack-in-the-box. Sharona's brow was furrowed and her head was turned a different way. Monk stood and watched her in excitement.  
  
"Sharona?" he asked, wondering if she was really waking up. He got his answer when her eyelids slowly lifted. She squinted at him and blinked a couple times.  
  
"Adrian, what . . .?" She paused, her voice hoarse. She looked down at herself then, saw her arm in a sling, the machines all around and the ugly hospital gown and she finally realized where she was. The earlier events of the day were slowly coming back to her in a haze. "Poochie."  
  
"You're awake!" Monk said excitedly, not realizing what Sharona had just said. He had the biggest, goofiest smile plastered on his face that Sharona had ever seen. Then he turned. "Benjy! Benjy, wake up."  
  
Ben slowly stirred and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and then also wore a huge smile. "Mom!" He hurried over and stood next to Monk.  
  
"Hey sweetheart," Sharona said. She ran her good hand through Ben's hair briefly and then held his left hand.  
  
Ben's shout had gotten the attention of the Stottlemeyers and a nurse. The three of them entered the room. The nurse immediately started checking Sharona's vitals.  
  
"Everything's looking good," she said. "BP, temperature. I'm going to go get Dr. Robbins. I'll be right back."  
  
The nurse left and Monk got a confused look on his face. "Temperature?" he muttered to himself. Nobody else heard him.  
  
"You gave everybody quite a scare," the captain said.  
  
"Sorry. Didn't mean to," Sharona responded with a smirk.  
  
"As long as you don't do it again," Ben said. Sharona gave him a mock serious look.  
  
"Okay, I won't."  
  
"Promise?" he asked.  
  
"Cross my heart and hope to never get shot again," she said with a smile. He climbed up onto the bed next to her and she wrapped her right arm around him. The nurse rejoined them then with Dr. Robbins close behind her.  
  
"Well, Ms. Fleming, hello," he said. "I'm Dr. Robbins."  
  
"Hi, and please call me Sharona," she said. "The only people who call me Ms. Fleming are my son's friends."  
  
"Okay then," he said. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Like I've been shot," she said sarcastically.  
  
"Sorry, stupid question."  
  
"No, that's okay. I'm just cranky when I first wake up," she replied. Ben nodded his head, making Dr. Robbins smile.  
  
"Sharona, did you say 'Poochie' earlier?" Monk asked suddenly. Everyone stared at him in confusion.  
  
"What?" Sharona asked, wondering if she actually heard him correctly.  
  
"When you woke up, did you say 'Poochie'?"  
  
"Uh, I don't know," she said, trying to remember everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. She thought she remembered saying it, but she wasn't sure. "I guess I did."  
  
"Why did you say that?" Monk asked.  
  
"Monk, is this really important right now?" Stottlemeyer asked.  
  
"It might be," he replied. "Do you know why you said it?"  
  
"Uh, I guess because I saw Poochie in the park," Sharona responded. "She was there right before I got shot."  
  
"Where exactly?" Monk asked.  
  
"Mr. Monk, I really think-" Dr. Robbins began.  
  
"I'm sorry. I promise you this is important," Monk interrupted, holding up his hand to silence the doctor. He then turned to Karen. "Karen, would you mind being Sharona. I need to set this up. Pretend the doorway is the street. Stand with your back to it."  
  
Karen complied, but Sharona interrupted. "Adrian, I'm really not sure I remember."  
  
Monk ignored her and gestured to Ben. "Benjy, I need you to be Poochie."  
  
Ben climbed off the bed and moved over to stand by Monk and Karen. Monk turned to Sharona and waited for her to describe the scene. She knew what he wanted and she closed her eyes, trying to remember.  
  
"I was walking toward the vendor and Poochie ran up to me from the left," Sharona said. She opened her eyes. "Then I knelt with my back to the street and started to pet Poochie." Monk gestured for Karen to kneel on the floor with her back to the door. She did so and then Monk gestured for Ben to kneel directly in front of Karen. Monk stood behind Karen and looked at it, imagining that Karen actually was Sharona and Ben actually was Poochie. "Yeah, like that. Then I was shot," Sharona finished.  
  
"How long between the moment you knelt with your back completely to the street and the moment that you were shot?" Monk asked, everything was clicking into place in his mind.  
  
"I don't know," Sharona replied. "A few seconds."  
  
"A few seconds," Adrian muttered. Dr. Robbins was finally frustrated enough to interrupt.  
  
"Okay, I'm going to have to ask everyone to leave so Sharona can get some rest," he said. Karen and Ben stood.  
  
"Poochie!" Monk exclaimed. "One hundred and two degrees. That's it. I know how he did it."  
  
"What are you talking about Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked.  
  
"I'll explain on the way," he said as he headed for the door. "And call Lt. Disher."  
  
Monk was already out the door. Stottlemeyer shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, Sharona. I guess we'll be back later."  
  
He hurried after Monk, wondering what was going on just as much as everybody else was.  
  
* * *  
  
Albert Corson was not a happy man when he opened his door at 8 at night to find Monk, Stottlemeyer and Disher there. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Disher holding a sniper rifle and a tripod.  
  
"What the hell is going on?" he asked angrily. "It's a little late for a visit from the police."  
  
"It's never too late, Mr. Corson," Monk said. "May we come in?"  
  
"Do you have a warrant?" he asked snidely.  
  
"As a matter of fact, we do," Stottlemeyer said, holding up a folded piece of paper. That's when Corson saw a police cruiser pulling up in front of the house. Two uniformed officers stepped out of the cruiser. Stottlemeyer stepped through the door, forcing Corson to move back. Monk and Disher followed the captain into the foyer. The uniformed officers also hurried inside and Corson closed the door.  
  
"And I ask you again, what is going on?"  
  
"It was hard to really pin you down," Monk said to Corson. "I mean, you had five air tight alibis. You had the means, the intelligence, the motive."  
  
"I told you, Mr. Monk," Corson said with a smirk. "Why waste my time shooting dogs? Poochie will be dead of natural causes within ten years."  
  
"Maybe so, but you'll be out of your mother's will within two weeks," Stottlemeyer said.  
  
"I had a chat with your mother's lawyer," Monk said. "Seems you weren't exactly loved by your parents. After two weeks, Poochie's death would send that money off to various animal charities. You wouldn't see a dime."  
  
Corson looked slightly uncomfortable but tried not to give too much away. "That doesn't mean I would kill Poochie. Or any other dogs."  
  
"But it does," Monk said. "And up until about an hour ago, I didn't know how you did it. But after Sharona was shot, you panicked. You left your rifle behind."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Corson asked, trying to conceal his unease. He was definitely getting nervous. Disher was setting the rifle up on the tripod. After he was done, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Poochie came trotting into the foyer. Monk looked nervously at Poochie and stepped behind Stottlemeyer.  
  
"Poochie, sit," Disher said. The dog complied in accordance with her expensive and expert obedience training. Disher commanded further, "Stay."  
  
The others watched as Disher slowly moved the rifle on the tripod, using only his right hand on the butt of the rifle to point it downward. His hands were nowhere near the trigger. He watched the scope, waiting for Poochie to come into sight.  
  
"What are you doing?" Corson asked.  
  
"Oh, don't worry," Stottlemeyer said. "It's not loaded."  
  
When Poochie came into view on the small screen of the scope there was a quiet beep and a few seconds later there was a very audible click as the trigger mechanism attempted to fire the gun. Had it been loaded, Poochie would be dead.  
  
"This scope has heat sensors that trip the trigger mechanism to fire the gun without any human guidance," Monk said. "But it doesn't sense just any heat. It is set to fire when a target is 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The normal body temperature of a dog."  
  
"What? You're saying that I set this rifle up, pointed it someplace and then let it sit there until a dog passed in front of the sensor?" Corson asked with an incredulous laugh. "The odds of that happening are slim."  
  
"Slim, but not impossible," Monk said. "You knew the police wouldn't take dog shootings very seriously, and you needed a cover in order to take Poochie out. It needed to look like it wasn't you who did it or else you wouldn't get your parents' money. You knew you could set the rifle up and come back for it later. You knew the police wouldn't spend enough time on the cases in order to find the rifle where you left it. Finally after I started asking you too many questions, you let Poochie get out near the park. But when Sharona was shot, you couldn't risk being seen anywhere near the park. You couldn't go back for the rifle."  
  
"There's a four second delay between the moment the scope picks up the target and the moment the trigger fires," Stottlemeyer continued. "Sharona moved into the line of fire during that delay. The bullet that got her was meant for Poochie."  
  
"Even if this unbelievable story were true," Corson began. "You can't prove that I own or have even touched that rifle."  
  
"You're almost right," Disher said. "There's no fingerprints anywhere on the outside of the gun or on the tripod."  
  
"Exactly," Corson said.  
  
"But there is a fingerprint on the inside," Monk added. Corson looked at him, nervous and confused. "That scope is homemade. The lab confirmed that. You're very good with electronics, Mr. Corson, but not with forensics. Did you remember to wipe down the inside of the scope's casing?"  
  
He didn't say anything. He was too busy mentally kicking himself. "The lab picked up a really nice thumb print," Stottlemeyer said. "It matches yours."  
  
"I want to talk to my attorney," Corson said abruptly.  
  
"You have every right to do that," Stottlemeyer said. He motioned for the uniformed officers to arrest Corson. One of them started cuffing him. "You also have the right to remain silent. You're under arrest for four counts of animal cruelty and the attempted murder of Sharona Fleming. If you can't afford your attorney because you just lost out on a million bucks, one will be appointed to you by the courts."  
  
The officers escorted Corson out of the mansion. Disher took the rifle off the tripod and then quickly followed the officers out the door.  
  
"That was some rabbit you pulled out of your hat," Stottlemeyer said to Monk. But Monk was too busy looking down at Poochie nervously. "Monk?"  
  
"Does she look like she wants to lick me?" he asked. Stottlemeyer shook his head.  
  
"Heaven help us all if she does," he said. He walked out of the mansion while Monk remained in a staring match with San Francisco's richest dog. 


	6. Getting His Reward

Three days later, Sharona was released from the hospital and Monk was already driving her nuts. But not in his usual way. He escorted her into her home and led her immediately to the couch. Ben was close behind them carrying Sharona's purse and a small duffel bag.  
  
"Adrian, I was shot in the shoulder, not the leg. You don't have to help me walk," she said. She sat on the couch and looked up at Monk. He was already headed for the kitchen. Ben set Sharona's things down and sat on the couch to her right. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I am going to take care of you," he said. He started opening her cabinets, using a wet wipe to grab the handles. "You are not going to do a thing around here until you are completely healthy."  
  
"You don't have to do this," she said. Monk left the kitchen and walked back into the living room. "My mom is going to be here tomorrow."  
  
"And until then, I'm here," he said with a smile. Just then there was a knock at the front door. Ben jumped up from the couch and answered it. Todd walked in carrying a cardboard box that was covered with a blanket. Slight movement could be seen under the blanket.  
  
"Hey, Todd," Sharona said with a smile.  
  
"Hi, Ms. Fleming," he said. "Sorry you got shot."  
  
"Oh, that's okay, honey," she replied. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
"My mom said she was going to bring over a casserole or something," Todd said. "I just came over to thank you and Mr. Monk. You found who shot Duke."  
  
"Oh, it was no problem," Monk said modestly.  
  
"What have you got in the box?" Sharona asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. Todd pulled the blanket off the box to reveal nine puppies. Monk stepped back a little and stared at them. Sharona sat forward to see them better, careful not to lean on her left arm, which was still in a sling. "Oh, how adorable!"  
  
"They're Duke's. And the neighbor's dog's," Todd explained. "They're finally old enough to be away from their mom. I'm sorry I can't pay you, but I want you to have a puppy."  
  
"Oh, that's sweet, Todd," Sharona said with a chuckle. "But Mr. Monk isn't really a dog person." She looked at Monk, who was still eyeing the puppies. "Or an animal person, for that matter."  
  
Monk shook his head and snapped himself out of his nervous trance. "No, it's fine, Sharona," he said. He stepped forward toward the box. "I'd love to have one of Duke's puppies. It's perfect."  
  
"It is?" Sharona asked, not believing him for a second. But this she had to see this. Ben was also curious.  
  
"I brought them all over so you could pick one," Todd said. Monk stepped a little closer to the box and leaned over slightly, looking at each individual puppy closely. Their little tails were wagging and they were climbing all over each other. One of them was determined to climb up the side of the box, but it was just a few inches too tall.  
  
"Go on, Adrian," Sharona said with a smirk. "Pick one."  
  
Monk glared at her briefly and then slowly moved his hands toward the box. Most of the puppies were in a pile in one corner and the thought of reaching into that mass of squirming puppies sent chills down his spine. But the little climber, the one trying to escape, was all alone on the other side of the box. Monk figured that was a safe bet. He moved his hands toward that puppy, hesitated for a moment, and then picked it up with both hands. He stepped back, holding the puppy like it was a bomb. He looked nervously at it and tried to smile to show Todd that everything was okay. Sharona was trying her best not to burst out laughing.  
  
"See, Sharona?" Monk asked, his voice wavering a little. "I love the little guy." He looked at the underside of the puppy and corrected himself. "Girl."  
  
"What are you going to name her?" Todd asked.  
  
"I don't know," Monk said, hoping Todd would leave soon. He could just feel germs crawling down his hands and arms. "I'll have to think about that. I'll have Benjy let you know."  
  
"Okay," Todd said. He put the blanket back over the box. "Thanks again."  
  
"Bye Todd," Sharona said as he headed out the door with the remaining puppies. As soon as he was gone, Monk moved over to the sofa and dropped the puppy next to Sharona.  
  
"Wipe," he said. "Wipe. Wipe."  
  
"Benjy, my purse," Sharona said through her laughter. Ben quickly pulled the package of wipes out and Monk snatched them away. He speedily pulled one out and wiped all over his hands. He unbuttoned his long sleeves, rolled them up and wiped down his arms. "Would you like to take a shower?"  
  
"I need to go home," Monk said. He moved about from point to point in the room, not really moving anywhere in particular. He grabbed his suit jacket and headed for the front door.  
  
"What happened to taking care of me?" Sharona asked with a smirk.  
  
Monk put on his jacket and glanced at her. "Your mother will be here tomorrow."  
  
Sharona pet the puppy with her right hand and Monk cried out in disgust. He quickly exited out the front door, leaving Ben and Sharona with their new pet.  
  
THE END  
  
A/N: Thanks to those of you who read and reviewed. And glad you really liked the story. Oh and I think it was Len, who wanted to know what happens to Poochie. I'm not sure, really. I didn't feel that was important to finishing up the story. Dunno. Maybe Monk will run into her in a future story. 


End file.
